I stumbled down the stairs, fumbling with the buttons of my shirt, my excitement and terror mingling into a chaotic mess. Morningstar had only been the Sword of Indianapolis for the last two or three decades. I understand that now I'm casting the picture of a grizzled 30-year veteran in your mind, but things are different for Griidlords. The Order fields that dominate almost every aspect of life in the world generally don’t affect biological life. Only at extremes do living things seem to be affected by the fields. In circumstances of extreme Entropy, darker, deeper, and more twisted than the normal veil that cloaks the land, the fiends seem to emerge, born from the chaos. But beings that exist in areas of extremely high Order, Tower dwellers for example, seem to age more slowly. Kings could reign for centuries, and Griidlords, spending most of their lives in their suits, could serve a city for 100 years or more, if they managed to keep their heads attached to their necks for the duration. Morningstar was new to the suit by relative terms, but in these last 30 years, he had made people take notice of Indianapolis.

As I entered the dining room, I saw my father laughing and sharing scotch with Morningstar. The Griidlord sat there in his glowing, shining Griidsuit, helmet removed, sharing the laughter and sipping whiskey with ice cubes. He was handsome, confident, and aloof. My father noticed me and said, "Tiberius, at last! I thought you’d never finish with the silliness in the arena today."

I approached him, glowering inside. Silliness. He was the one who had turned my entire existence into training for this, for as long as I could remember. "I thought the Choosing was the greatest thing that had ever happened to our family," I said, unable to conceal the bitterness.

My father’s eyes flashed with warning. "Indeed it is, son, but today was nothing, as well you should know. There was never any possibility that my son would fail on day zero."

I winced a little, thinking about how poorly I had performed. Morningstar turned to me, his eyes appraising. "I was conducting a little business for your father, bringing me to Boston, and he thought that maybe I could share some wisdom with you. Now, I gotta be honest, kid, I don't know if a few words will make the difference. Those noble kids you're going up against will have been trained by Griidlords themselves."

I snorted, unable to hide my hero worship. "Yeah, but none of those Griidlords will have been the Morningstar."

I groaned inside as I said it, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. Morningstar smiled kindly. "Well, I dunno about all that, but whatever I got in here"—he tapped the side of his head—"if any of it's any good to you, then you can have your share."

Father slapped his shoulder, the sound ringing against the strange liquid metal that the suit seemed to be composed of. "Thank you, my friend. It's been my dream for the longest time to see my boy wear a suit, and now he has his chance—a Sword suit up for grabs no less."

Morningstar looked down at the glowing sword strapped to his own side, a little morose. "The Sword isn't so easy to carry sometimes."

Father said, "You two sit here a minute. I'll go see what's happening in the kitchen. I swear, Morningstar, you could have more money than God—and I do—and it would still be impossible to find good help." He drifted away, pausing to refill his glass from the whiskey bottle, leaving me and the Griidlord alone.

I haven't done a terrific job explaining to you what a Griidlord is exactly. Each city has five: Sword, Shield, Arrow, Axe, and Scepter, each with their own strengths and weaknesses, strong against and weak against other types of suits like a game of rock-paper-scissors. At the lowest rung, a Griidlord is maybe the equivalent of a couple thousand men on the field. At the highest, like the man who stood before me now, it was said that a Griidlord could have the impact of 10,000 soldiers in battle. When a Griidlord died or retired, a Choosing would begin to select the next wearer of the suit. It was something taken with the utmost seriousness; the success and failure of a city hinged absolutely on the quality of its Griidlords. More Orbs meant more of everything for the people.

Now, why was what essentially amounted to a god working for my father? Well, this brings up the secondary but still vital function of the Griidlords. This is a world where technology just doesn't work outside the cities, so trade can move only as fast as horse and wagon. A journey from Boston to, let's say, San Francisco could take weeks, and most of the time it did. The movement of troops and goods was tightly contained by this limitation. Griidlords, though, could use their Order fields to perform a strange distortion of space-time, moving themselves, and potentially large numbers of others, at speeds of tens of miles per hour. Thus, Griidlords, the sentinels, the superpowered heroes, actually spent most of their time making themselves and their cities rich by acting as couriers.

Morningstar filled his glass again and moved to sit at the dining room table, settling in the chair nearest the fire. The flames cast a warm, flickering glow across his face, highlighting the lines of experience and the confident gleam in his eyes. He gestured to the chair opposite him.

“Well then…,” he said, his voice steady and encouraging. “Come on then, kid, let’s see what I can do you for.”